


Unsolicited Advice

by Irrevocably_Sherlocked



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Brief Mention of Suicide, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, POV John Watson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-14
Updated: 2015-09-14
Packaged: 2018-04-20 17:51:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4796684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Irrevocably_Sherlocked/pseuds/Irrevocably_Sherlocked
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is forced to concede that his sister may sometimes know what she's talking about...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unsolicited Advice

**Author's Note:**

> A big thank you to my wonderful beta, Hogwartswitch, who made this so much better than it was. And another big thank you to my biggest supporter, Happierstill, who encouraged me to write in the first place. I appreciate you both so much!

In retrospect, it was a bad idea. But she had been relentless in her texts, begging, cajoling, and pleading.

 

**Please Johnny, I haven’t seen you in forever. It’s only us you know. – H**

 

That finally got him. Admitting defeat, John Watson agreed to meet his sister for coffee, even though he really, really didn’t want to. Walking into the shop, he saw she had already ordered for both of them, a giant espresso concoction sitting in front of her. Pleased to see she was sober for once, John thought that perhaps this wouldn’t be such an awful visit.

 

“Johnny!” Harry Watson says, getting up from the table and wrapping her arms around her baby brother. John accepts her hug a bit stiffly, but returns it nonetheless, sitting down and claiming his own beverage.

 

“Hey Harry. How’re things?”

 

“Good, doing good. You? Back at Baker Street I hear?”

 

“Yeah, been back about a month now,” John says, taking a sip of his coffee. Ew. Pumpkin spice. What the hell was with flavored seasonal crap?

 

“I’m sorry about what happened with Mary, Johnny. I mean, I can’t say I ever liked her-“

 

John snorts, “That’s an understatement, sis. Couldn’t even make it to the wedding as I recall.”

 

“What did you expect? Did you actually expect to me to watch that travesty unfold? I couldn’t sit there, pretending to be happy for you when we both know – Sorry, never mind, “ Harry says, looking down. “How’s Sherlock?”

 

“He’s fine, and don’t change the subject. When we both know what, exactly?” John asks, leaning closer and staring at Harry’s bowed head.

 

Harry is resolutely refusing to finish her sentence, looking anywhere but at John, sipping her drink. John isn’t having it.

 

“Damn it, Harry, when we both know what?”

 

“When we both know that isn’t who you should have been marrying!”

 

John rocks back in his chair, stunned. “What in the hell do you mean by that?”

 

Harry raises an eyebrow. It was so close to his expression that it unnerved him sometimes. “Johnny. Come on. A blind man could see how you feel about him. I mean really. Your blog. #Sherlocklives means #johnwatsonlives? The two years he was gone, I’ve never seen you so down. I was terrified that you’d – well. That - ,” Harry swallows, looking out the window of the café. “That you’d follow him. And then when he came back, you were happy again. Joyous even. You were never like that with her, never. Even I could see it, and we barely even talk. That’s why I couldn’t watch, Johnny. I couldn’t. It wasn’t right.” Harry leans back, looking directly at John as she finishes, willing him to understand what she means.

 

John is stunned. He’s honestly never seen Harry speak so passionately about anything. And maybe, _maybe_ , he thinks she has a point. He can’t deny he’s attracted to Sherlock. Has been since the moment he met him all those years ago at Barts. And yes, perhaps, John wishes things were different, that they were more than just flatmates and best friends. But Sherlock is not interested in things like that, and as for John,

 

“I’m not gay!”

 

Harry just looks at him. Ok. It’s a flimsy excuse at best. He’s technically not gay. He’s bi. But Harry doesn’t know that. Does she? Does Sherlock? _Shit, this is complicated_ , he thinks.

 

The befuddlement lasts for all of 10 seconds before the anger comes rushing in, like it always does when Harry tries to stick her nose in where it doesn’t belong. _How dare she, anyway?_

 

“Where the hell do you get off,” John begins, leaning forward and slamming his hand on the table, “First of all, Sherlock and I are just friends. That’s it. It’s not like that! And what ever you may think I feel for him is none of your fucking business! So just keep out of it.”

 

“But Johnny, I just want you to be happy,” Harry says, reaching forward to place her hand on his. “I just think – “

 

“I don’t give a fuck about what you think,” John says, cutting her off and removing his hand from under hers. “I have to go. Thanks for the coffee.” He turns and storms out the door, completely missing the sad, concerned look lingering on his back.

 

+++++

 

 

Now back at the flat, John is replaying the encounter in his head and realizing that Harry did have a very valid point. He should have known things were never going to work out with Mary. He supposes he did love her, in a way. In a ‘thanks for being a warm body who listens to me mourn over my friend way too much’ kind of way. And she did help ease the crushing loneliness he felt after Sherlock ‘died’. Harry was also right about another thing; there were moments when John seriously contemplated following Sherlock to the grave. Life didn’t seem the same without that madman around, dragging him out of bed at 3 am to chase some criminal half across London. Without violin concertos in the lounge, even body parts in the fridge. The world seemed so beige without Sherlock there to inject color into his life. That should have been his first clue that Sherlock meant much more to him than he let on. But Mary was funny, and sweet, and she slowly brought him back from the brink. And he was so grateful to her, that even when that mad bastard did reappear and proclaim himself “not dead,” John was resigned to go through with the proposal, and eventually the wedding. Mary was willing, and Sherlock, well, he was still Sherlock. Still _“married to his work.”_ Wasn’t he? There were times during the wedding planning that John wasn’t sure. Times when Sherlock would catch his eyes, and a moment would pass between them, Sherlock’s face so soft, so full of _something_ , that John’s breath would catch in his throat. But as quickly as it came, it was shuttered away.

 

The waltz lessons were exquisite torture. Being so close to Sherlock, feeling his hand encircling his bicep, feeling his heartbeat, their bodies close, but not quite close enough to touch. John wanted. Oh, he wanted. Wanted to run his hands through those curls, pull his head down, and suck that ridiculously full bottom lip in between his teeth. Wanted to pull his hips close until they were flush with his own, grind his erection against his hard thigh.

 

_Shit_ , John realizes he needs to stop these thoughts right now, palming his growing erection through his jeans. _Scotch. Scotch would be good here_. John is supremely grateful the man in question is not currently in the flat, as rummaging through the kitchen cabinets half hard would be a tad embarrassing. John manages to find the bottle and a glass when he hears the flat door open and Sherlock step in.

 

“John,” Sherlock says, holding up two takeaway bags, “I thought you’d be hungry, I brought your favorite.”

 

“Thai?

 

“Hmm.”

 

“Cheers,” John smiles up at him. Since he’s been back, since Mary and the baby that wasn’t his and the fallout happened, Sherlock’s been like this more often. More considerate, more solicitous. Doing things he never bothered with before. Like actually cleaning up the messes from his experiments, or surprising John with takeaway.

 

The two settle into the couch with their portions, and John flips on the most recent episode of Top Gear just for some background noise. Lately it’s the one show that Sherlock doesn’t eviscerate within the first 10 minutes so it’s become neutral ground for them.

 

“How was your visit with Harry?” Sherlock asks, glancing at John from the side of his eye. John usually gets very tetchy when he meets with Harry, so Sherlock has learned to tread carefully.

 

“Fine,” John replies, a bit tense. He’s unsure how much of the conversation he really wants to bring up. Sometimes it’s hard having the world’s only Consulting Detective as a flatmate and best friend. Especially when there are secrets you’d like to keep for yourself. _Like the fact you’re pining for said best friend_ , his mind supplies unhelpfully. “She asked after you. It was kind of funny actually, she uh, she mentioned she never liked Mary,” John laughs.

 

“Hmm, well. Considering she didn’t come to the wedding, nor bother even sending back a regret, that was obvious.”

 

“Yeah, well. She said she knew it was kind of doomed from the start,” John says, glancing at Sherlock sideways. He really has no clue why he’s saying this, but he’s hoping for a reaction. He always wondered what Sherlock really thought of Mary. In the past he was so dismissive of all his girlfriends, always forgetting their names, purposely the git, no matter what he claimed. There seemed to be a hint of something like jealousy beneath the surface when John would announce he had a date. But that was before the fall. With Mary, Sherlock went out of his way to accept her. Even jumping in to help plan the perfect day, discussing bridesmaids‘ dresses, cake flavours, sodding invitation fonts together, thick as thieves. To be honest, John hated it.

 

Then only a month after the wedding, Mary Watson, his _wife_ , put a bullet in his heart. John still goes blind with rage when he thinks about the night he almost lost Sherlock, again. And for good this time, no miracles. If he is honest with himself, that was the beginning of the end. His forgiveness of her for the baby’s sake lasted all of two months before she confessed that it wasn’t even his. He’d wanted to be angry, to rage, to tear the bloke limb from limb, but in the end, he’d only felt relief. Now here he is back where he belongs, and things are perfect. Well, almost.

 

John glances up to find that Sherlock isn’t looking at him. He’s suddenly found something very interesting in his Pad Thai, a sure sign he’s uncomfortable with something.  John clears his throat, “I mean, she said it was a travesty because it was obvious I shouldn’t have married her.  She does have a point, in a way.” Nothing.

 

“Anyway,” John says, placing his empty container on the table and leaning back, “Thanks for this, Sherlock. I really appreciate it. Its amazing to me how you can always figure out exactly what I need.”

 

“You’re welcome, John. It’s my pleasure. I’m- I’m glad you’re home again,” Sherlock says, finally looking at John.

 

John sucks in a gasp. There it is again, _that look_ , he thinks. Sherlock’s eyes are soft on his, the pale green boring into his dark blue ones. As he stares, he unconsciously wets his lip. Sherlock lets out a tiny gasp, his eyes tracing the trail of his tongue, then flicking back up to meet his eyes, the pupil growing darker in the fading light of the flat. And just like that, heat sears through John’s veins, pooling in his belly, and he decides to take the chance. _Please let me be right_ , he thinks.

 

Slowly, so as not to alarm him, John tips his face up and brushes his lips against Sherlock’s once, twice. He pulls back when he realizes that Sherlock is not responding, his body tense next to his on the couch. John reaches one hand up to cup one of those beautiful cheekbones, “Sherlock?”

 

Sherlock reacts like he’s been burned. He’s up off the couch in a flash, grabbing the empty containers and heading for the kitchen.

 

_Shit! Bloody buggering fuck. Bollocks_. “Sherlock, I’m –“

 

“Don’t, “ Sherlock says, his back to John, leaning on the counter. “Don’t apologize.”

 

“Well, I’m kind of at a loss of what else to say. So I’m sorry, I thought- well. It doesn’t matter. Just – just delete it, or whatever, yeah? I’ll, um, turn in.” John takes three steps towards Sherlock, rubbing the back of his neck.  “Please know that this doesn’t change anything between us, ok, I won’t let it affect anything. It’s– fuck. I- shit. Goodnight, Sherlock,” he sighs, turning to go upstairs. _Nice one, Watson_.

 

“John.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Why did Harry say you shouldn’t have married her?”

 

“It doesn’t matter.”

 

“John!”

 

John turns around at the desperation he hears in Sherlock’s voice. Sherlock is still leaning on the counter, his hands gripping hard on the edge, knuckles white with tension. His shoulders are hunched, and John thinks he looks beaten somehow. He wants nothing more than to take that feeling away. _In for a penny_ , he thinks.

 

“She thinks that it was obvious that she wasn’t the one I should marry,” he begins, moving closer to Sherlock. “She thinks there was someone else who should have had that honour. “

 

John is standing beside Sherlock at the counter, watching the tension ripple across his frame.  John leans in, his lips close to that gorgeous neck, breath caressing Sherlock’s ear, “Someone else that I love.”

 

Sherlock shivers, and moves his right hand, wrapping it around John’s left wrist where it rests on the counter. John twists his hand slightly so he can feel Sherlock’s pulse beneath his fingers. Elevated. John smiles, a brilliant detective mentioned something about that once.

 

“And was she right?” Sherlock asks, his voice gone low and breathy.  He turns to face John, fully entwining their joined hands.  Sherlock is more open now than John has ever seen him; his pale eyes shining, searching John’s face as if he could read the answer from its depths. _He’s positively breathtaking_ , John thinks, and he knows, it’s time to come clean.

 

With his free hand, he reaches up to stroke Sherlock’s jaw, his thumb brushing his cheekbone. He snakes his fingers back into those luscious curls, and pulls Sherlock down, stopping just a hair’s breath from his lips, “Yes, she was,” he whispers, and presses his lips to Sherlock’s.

 

There’s no hesitation this time. Sherlock instantly responds, wrapping his arm around John’s shoulders and pulling him into his body, his lips softening under John’s. John does what he has wanted to do for so long and sucks that bottom lip between his teeth, biting gently. Sherlock whimpers, and John feels the heat begin to pool in his groin. He bites harder, eliciting a gasp, and John presses the advantage to deepen the kiss, licking into Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock groans low and snakes his hands around John’s waist pulling his hips flush with his own. It’s John’s turn to moan when he feels Sherlock’s hardness pressing into his belly, matching his own.

 

John breaks the kiss, smiling wickedly and presses Sherlock back against the refrigerator, reaching to lick up that glorious neck. He chases a pulse point, biting gently, and feels Sherlock melt against him. “Hmm, like that do you?”

 

“God, yes,” Sherlock pants, “Please, John, I need – “

 

“What do you need, love?” John asks, sucking Sherlock’s earlobe into his mouth, “Anything. Anything you want.”

 

Sherlock places his hands on either side of John’s head, threading into his hair, and pulls Johns face so it’s level with his eyes. “You. I need you, John Watson. It’s always you. I love you. I’ve loved you since the moment we met.  I never thought – “

 

John’s mouth on his cuts him off. The kiss quickly turns hot and bruising, tongues meeting, the sounds of their moans echoing through the flat. John inserts a thigh between Sherlock’s legs, rubbing his cock on the detective’s thigh, desperate for some friction to relieve the building pressure. Sherlock appears in much the same state; he is rutting frantically against John’s thigh, his hands snaking around to grab John’s arse and pull him even closer.

 

John breaks away, trying desperately to get himself under control before he comes in his pants like a bloody teenager in the middle of the kitchen. “Bedroom?” he asks breathily.

 

Sherlock nods, taking John by the hand and pulling him towards his bedroom.

 

As they reach for each other, tumbling together into Sherlock’s bed, John thinks he was wrong about his meeting with Harry. Perhaps he should see her more often. Perhaps there is something to be said for unsolicited advice.

 


End file.
